Memento Mori
by KhamanV
Summary: More than a decade has passed since Bahamut fell and Lemures rose. But now Ivalice faces a new threat: The Dark Hour, and the coming of Fall.  FFXII Genfic with faces new and old, plot structure inspired by Persona 3.  Canon behavior, Balthier, no pairing
1. Prologue: Ten Years Away From War

[This is a FFXII/Persona 3 genfic, rated PG-13 to R for violence, language, themes, occultism, rampant death, and so forth. The FFXII portion of the tale includes themes and items from Tactics and Tactics Advance, whereas the influence of Persona 3 extends itself mostly to general plot structure.

Final Fantasy XII

Memento Mori: A Tale of the Zodiac Braves

By MDS

There was a great war between countries; a war between families; a war between free will and fate. This war, whom some call The War of the Cryst or War of the Occurians (if they know more of the tale than they ought), or more generally The Archadian/Dalmascan Conflict, ended with a kind of troubled, infant peace between countries. Dalmasca's new Queen welcomed a treaty with the youthful Archadian Emperor, and to the west, Rozarria's great war-machine settled into its slumber once more.

Events continued as they do for man and moogle; life goes on, the merchants haggle, and the pirates still ply the skies. Little note was made of the floating lands that were uncovered, save by those that made profit from it one way or another. And so it was, with one thing and another, time passed.

Prologue – Ten Years Away From A War

He stood on the observation deck, slender hands resting lightly on the rail. His many rings, blue and gold and brilliant red – and one thick signet upon a thumb – tapped a lazy, absent-minded tattoo upon the burnished wrought bronze. Dark eyes with the barest of lines at their corners watched the production conveyers below; ears lightly laden with cuffs and coils caught snippets of bellowed conversation between Bangaa workmen and Moogle engineers; the aristocratic nose captured varying oils and polishing unguents. His body observed. His mind was elsewhere, much to the dismay of the Viera who stood close with arms crossed and eyes narrowed.

Fran uttered a brief sigh and shifted her weight from one silver-heeled foot to another. This minor activity did nothing to shake the Hume man, her friend and partner, her _attil vrodhir_, from his reverie. Her impatience grew too thick for her to bear after the tenth repetition of some minor jingle coming from his rings, and she finally broke the silence. "The Judge is here for his six-month inspection." She took no small amount of satisfaction from the brief jerk of surprise at the interruption. "All is in readiness for him. Except yourself, of course."

Balthier turned, a puzzled look on his face, and she gestured impatiently at him. "You are always sloppy at your work. What would be thought of you in Balfonheim were they to see you as such? The shirt askew, the cuffs shot, the spectacles upon their chain. At least your trousers resist insult. When the scholar plays, the pirate pays, _vrodhir._"

"Scholar or pirate, one or the other? I claim both for myself, and have for years. Balfonheim must accept what I am, just as Archadia's court must," he replied in a dry tone. "And of course, _agil astaris_, I care not for their opinion."

"I do not see the last reflected in your clothing bills," she retorted, just as dry. "That is an expensive linen on your back, bearing an expensive glossair oil. It will be just as expensive to get it out."

"A lack of care for others does not mean I lack care for myself." He tugged his shirt into discipline, curling a lip at the dark oil that marred an arm. Grasping to his left, he found his heavy black coat and pulled it on, his fingers bumping over its embroidered whorls of gold at its edges and sleeves. The elegant item covered all trace of stains neatly, leaving him looking as courtly and finished as ever, as his friends expected of him. Besides, there would be a chill in the office, as much from a stray, as yet unfound draft, as there would be from Judge Gabranth as he played at his role. And played well, to be sure. Ten times or more the game had been played.

_Oh well_, he thought to himself, pulling a thin gold chain over his head and slipping both it and the attached pair of spectacles into a hidden pocket inside the coat. _The script is easy and brief and in a day or so I will buy Basch a beer and the matter is forgot for another half-year._ Except that this day felt different than the other ones. Restlessness burned in him, and his mind still felt distracted.

Without a word, for words were not needed between them, he walked away from the deck and down a set of corridors to his secure office, Fran trailing noiselessly behind him.

-----

The steel-gloved hand clasped the portfolio as Balthier wordlessly handed it over. In defiance of protocol, the Judge's helmet rested on the desk and it was Basch's own lightly scarred face that smiled humorlessly at the presentation. "Did you want the rundown on the rumors I'm to check over or not?" he rumbled in what was, for Basch, amiable tones.

"Don't bother, I received a report last week." Balthier smiled thinly at Basch's unveiled irritation. The rumors were the usual filed reports of hauntings or dire experiments, rubbish put forth by those still troubled by the site's reactivation. He'd taken Jules' information, looked it over, and tossed it aside, unconcerned.

The Judge Magister started, jolted into immediate grumpiness by the revelation. "I should not know that you have advance notice of inspections."

"I know. You know I know. I know you know I know. The emperor knows, the pirates know, the engineers know. We're all so knowledgeable here," came the lilting, arrogant reply. Basch grunted irritably in response. "It doesn't matter, Draklor is as clean these days as the thoughts of the Light of Kiltia, if you believe the dogma." Balthier's tone implied that he did not. "You and the Emperor both know that if I'm going to play a dangerous game, it won't be here."

Basch sighed. The pirate-lord was always a handful, but never before at inspection time. A dull headache began to throb behind his eyes. First it had been the abrupt, distracted greeting, a wild change from the cheerful obnoxiousness that usually met the Judge Magister, and now he was gamboling with words. Not to mention that the inspection list was larger than usual and involved the newest airship construction bays. Those alone would take an extra two hours. However, the man had a point. Seven years since he had claimed inheritance as the prodigal Bunansa, at Emperor Larsa Solidor's delighted acceptance, five as the director of a re-imagined, civilian-focused Draklor Laboratory, and not a single piece of paperwork out of alignment or fleck of contraband to be found.

Usually that meant somebody was getting away with murder somewhere, but the controversial lord funneled his antics towards other ends. Balfonheim had a favored house among the Archadian Council, which was always good for a few pirate laughs. Meanwhile, the youngblood nobility had a devil-may-care figurehead to rally behind, much to an Emperor's glee. Not to mention that there was seldom a dinner party where something, from silverware to family heirloom, didn't go missing. Most items turned back up unharmed when the family squalled, a bit of 'practise,' as the Lord Bunansa would explain it when called upon, but a few did not speak up. Frequently, it was a signal that something else was going on and Basch had managed a few spectacular arrests due to the subtle hints.

The Emperor would but smile and wave away all complaints directed at his favorite nobleman, save for a few fobbed off in other ways. It was an efficient method to shake up the old guard and rebuild Archades to better ends, as Larsa frequently explained to Basch. Basch appreciated the constant reminders; between that knowledge and the occasional informant sent to the Judges, it kept him from strangling Balthier as he untangled yet another conflict between the houses.

Balthier cleared his throat as Basch returned his attention to matters at hand. His own reverie had gone on longer than he meant, and he flipped impatiently through the document in his hand. As expected, all inventories, accounting, and personnel looked in order. The Nu Mou examiners Larsa had employed for such business matters would look over the papers in their own exacting way, but would almost certainly find nothing out of place.

Basch sighed and set the portfolio down next to his helmet, taking that up instead. "I suppose, then, we'll just get the inspection over and done with." An absent nod was his reply. "I'll start in the new bays, then go backward through the list. Shake it up a bit, for my own sanity." He began to pull the helmet down onto his head, Balthier's noise of assent filtered into a distant mumble for a moment, until the helm was placed as it ought and the interior acoustics allowed sound to echo crisply into his ears again. Manufacted, shatterproof glass lined the inside of the helmet along the eyelines, and their reflections caused a kind of fish-eyed monitor, a way of enhancing a Judge's field of vision, though it stopped short of being able to see directly behind. Some clever designer had pulled off the potentially unwieldy armor of a Judge well. Dimly, Basch recalled that the pirate-lord before him knew of those tricks as well, and so any advantage would be of limited usefulness in a battle.

Why he suddenly thought of combat against Balthier, he didn't know and didn't dwell on. It was his way to accept anything as a possible threat, though the other man's unusual discomfort today put him on edge. Abruptly, he chose to tackle it head on. "Does something trouble you today, pirate?"

Dark eyes flicked towards his helmeted face, and a shrug formed his initial reply. "Nothing I can put a name on. Perhaps it's merely the coming of winter that discomfits me. Or a passing whiff of boredom." It rang untrue, but Basch knew the man seldom lied out of maliciousness. Likelier the cause escaped Balthier himself and so he grasped for easy possibles.

Basch grunted and took up the portfolio again, the matter cast aside. "Let's go, then."

-----

Six hours and the pacing of countless anonymous, metal-sheeted corridors later, and the pirate-lord Balthier Bunansa was finally able to sink tiredly into his office's chair once more. Like his choice in clothing, his furniture too was bought for both stylish elegance and extreme comfort. The chair, which he privately called 'The Womb,' was the well-crafted room's biggest extravagance. He didn't know how it was made, if it involved ritual sacrifice or what; he would go to war to keep the chair and its sinkable softness, firm support, and perfect height. He'd fallen asleep in it more nights than he could count. That night might have been another, if he were not so concerned with other matters.

Judge Magister Gabranth had left just moments prior, all issues squared away, all parts of the Lab certified legal and documented, and a promise made to share a drink in a few nights when the forms were all sorted out. Balthier liked Basch, he was a good reminder of what Judges ought to be, when not power-hungry fools lapping at the heels of emperors, or, if he were to be honest, wide-eyed children thrust where they ought not to be by another's machinations.

The memory pulled Balthier's face into a moue of disgust and he looked up at the old display of weaponry his father had installed into the office with a flash of resurgent anger. It faded as he puffed a sigh – _let the past be the past, then, and dwell no more on it._

Ah, but future always came to be the past, and the past lay markers for the future, and what then? Was that what was troubling?

He drummed his fingers on the ornately carved desk, calculating together his thoughts. Fran passed by the open door and he flicked his gaze toward her, looking but not seeing. She would be leaving for the night, to do what he no longer knew. As a price paid for this new type of life he'd made, he still had a close friend, a partner, an _astaris_, but not as much time to enjoy those bonds. Not with her, nor with many others, unless the youngblood nobles and the hens and hornets of the old guard counted. Which he did not, save for one or two.

_Prices were market-fair,_ he thought. _And I bear merchandise for the longer haul. I knew what I wrought, and knew the endpoint. Can a single man change fate, if he knows the fate well enough?_

_And if that fate is changed, what else comes about of it?_

He had no answer for himself. And though he knew he ought not go and scry, he felt as if he might be less troubled if the memories were made afresh.

Balthier rose from his chair and strode out, seeking his landbound home, a far cry from his Strahl, but owning passages more secure than his father's old Laboratory lairs.

-----

Nobles held homes high in Archades' levels, using private airships to go back and forth. Balthier's ancestral home was little different, although his also bore access to an easy path that led to his beloved airship. It was small, considering that he left most of it closed off since it went unused – a kitchen, a dining room, a handful of studies and library rooms that saw considerable traffic by him even in youth, and four bedrooms, including his own. Were he to open up the rest, the home would double or more. He didn't care. Extravagance only went so far, sensibility rode the rest. After half a decade, he still slept better aboard the Strahl, and frequently did so.

One library was a little different than the others. It was much smaller, for one, and that helped a pirate once called Ffamran claim it as his own at a precocious young age. Oddly designed, for another. Ostensibly, this was to keep stable the cabinets of curiosities – little Moogle carvings and scraps of Viera artifacts on display in lovely wood cases. Worthless, save for the sentiment involved. He'd collected them starting at the age of ten, fancying himself some great scholar of the older races. He'd had better luck with collecting the various Nu Mou texts that rested on the bookshelves, for they had humored him in ways that brightened an inquisitive mind. The rest were books of folklore and legends and great pirate deeds.

There was a pattern here in this childhood sanctuary, surely. A kind of schematic for what builds the man that comes. But like childhood often bears darker secrets, so too did his little library. The secret cubbies had been his delight, bearing not much at first finding than old trinkets of past Bunansa follies – a forged accountancy here, a set of love letters to someone decidedly _not_ a Bunansa's wife there, things of little interest to a young Ffamran. It was the finding that had thrilled him, the discovery of what had been forgotten. There, too, lay a piece of pattern, but now the pattern entombed something else.

Years ago, he had found a cache of auracite at Glabados and, while the ensuing adventure had made a better person and better pirate of Vaan, there had been another secret about it, hadn't there?

He had told no one in full of the odd 'hallucination,' though Fran had hints of it. She'd had to, following along in his mad quest after their return from the floating continent. A moment's blink for them, a year or more of bleak war for him. Aspects of it had shook him to his core; creatures familiar to him, espers at beck and call in his _now_ were actually _then_ horrors seeking to manipulate Humekind like Occurians themselves had done once. Magic weakened, races evaporated, technology broken and scattered. The airship graveyards had torn at his heart, and his sky pirate self would give anything to see such a future betrayed and cast aside. All that, and the sickening knowledge that had turned his gut every day – _he should not have been there._ The return had been a relief, a year rewound and time put back in its place.

There were, he knew, only a handful of general outcomes available to a sky pirate's life. There were very few truly old sky pirates, the life needed more than a little vitality. One could give up and go away when weary of the life, hoping to become a farmer or something just as dull and evade justice. One could die in glory, at the peak of their career – and he damned near had, aboard that hellish _Bahamut_ – or one could retire in rich faux-respectability, their freedom bought by their legend and, if lucky, one final major heist.

Balthier was a war hero, a noble of the Bunansas, who had been there when the last bullet had been shot into the skull of Archadian tyranny. He had seen the discovery of new races, new powers, and new stones. He was the last notorious pirate known by name on the streets of Balfonheim. In time, Vaan and Penelo might challenge his legacy, but history already knew him well enough. Marquis Ondore had ensured that much, with his constant scribbling on the past. Culturally, that was a hell of a heist already. Sky pirate hero makes good, returns to hometown to be the people's champion. Legally, he was virtually untouchable.

But if the knowledge of _this_ heist got out, there'd be hell to pay. Sooner or later, that bill was going to come due. He had begun to worry it was coming due sooner than he'd wished. Something was going to unleash. The only question was, what?

He trailed his fingers along a piece of misshapen wall that supported a case of wooden carvings. A series of indentations were pressed in a certain order, and a sliver of wall pushed in. Balthier gripped the new hole with a few careful fingertips, lifted, and pushed. A greater piece of wall slipped aside noiselessly, the joints and cuts of the wood cared for by years of gentle polishing.

He beheld the contents of the secret compartment with the wariness of a put-upon priest who might know surely that there are Gods, but knows just as surely that they are seldom the friends of mortal man. Thirteen distinct glimmers shone back at him, carved stones gathered at much cost and trouble. The sight did nothing to assuage his restlessness, as he had hoped they might. Instead, the sight of them troubled him further, the sense that something was coming growing stronger. Thirteen stones that had brought forth countless wars and countless conflicts lay before him. Stones that were just as dangerous to fate as the Occurians themselves had been – and he had his doubts that their final word on the world had been uttered.

The Zodiac Stones.

He shut the compartment with a scowl and stalked off for a drink.


	2. 1: Travelers and Clamor

Part One:

Introductions All Around

1.

A Traveler Sets Up Shop, Another Arrives Amidst Clamor

"Did you see her?"

"No, did you?"

"Clairee told me about her. Not seen the girl myself."

"Well, _I_ heard from Va'trisha. She says she's already been in the place."

"Bangaa's balls, she has not." There was a defiant sniff for emphasis.

"'S'truth, she swears. It's _all velvet_ in there." A pause for awed silence.

"Come on, can't be."

"Blue velvet curtains, a satiny velvet spread on a table, whole damn thing is blue, blue, blue. Cost a king's ransom, to be sure."

"How in blazes can she know?"

"She did deliveries to the neighbors. Stuck her head in and left. Said it felt creepier'n hell."

The young healer sidled by the two gossipy Humes, her short legs shuffling her with surprising agility along the cobbled streets of Old Archades. A shrill voice gave her pause.

"Here, then, you a Nu Mou?"

Though phrased as such, she could tell it was not her race that was being questioned, but her purpose. She'd heard all about Archadia's attitude before the War, but strove to hope for the better. She turned and inclined her head politely to the tall Hume women. "I am as that I am, friends," she said with a gentle smile, her face upturned and eyes closed in respect, as she was taught to do. A long pause matched her response. She opened her eyes, keeping her smile. The paid continued to examine her. Puzzled, she continued. "My name is Ma'Shenzi."

The more rotund of the pair eventually shook herself of the silence. "Cor. What's with the robes? From Bur-Omisace?"

"You say it right. I am a healer, on a walkabout."

"To _Archades_?" The taller one looked aghast. "Lot's improved here, but not so much. Justice be done by us down in here in the oldtown better'n ever, but mark me well - Humes still rule the roost from their high towers now as much as ever."

Ma'Shenzi paused to contemplate. The information was a kindness from poor folk who did not think first to sell her info for better station in the city above. That alone lifted her spirits. _Truly, truly then my path is right though the vision still unclear._ Her smiled widened. "I have my hopes. Surely, sentiment or no, there are those who could use a healer's touch here below?"

The rotund one took over the conversation with a snort. "First trick's going to be getting anyone to let you set up shop. Second's gonna be getting sick Humes to put up with you – most'll be happier with the quacks, so long as their ears are aright and the legs straight and tall. Third'll be collectin' any pay even from the ones that take your offer."

"I'd ask no pay!" The assumption threw Ma'Shenzi. It was unthinkable to ask for payment at Bur-Omisace when the supplicant was in need. She saw immediately that the violence of her reply took the pair aback and she gentled her tone. "As to the first, my office is the open air. The second? Those that want my help can get it. Those that do not will go as the Light of Kiltia guides."

Rotund one gave her a look over. "And the foolish ones what might hurt you?"

Ma'Shenzi straightened up as much as a Nu Mou could and looked as benign as possible. "Let them come and try."

A raucous laugh came from the pair. "All right, then. Welcome to Old Archades, and Gods help you. I'm Chefia, and my fat friend here is Galis."

Galis thudded a palm against the arm of her tall companion. "Off with you, Legs. I'm in good health."

Healer's trained eyes looked the rotund woman over. "That you are," said Ma'Shenzi. "But a bit more meat and less bread balanced out will let the world know it."

"Guess which is more expensive, healer-thing."

"Of course. But a bit of meat goes a longer way than a lot of bread. The cost might balance. I am always willing to help with that as well. I of course mean no offense." Ma'Shenzi added the last as she realized that some Humes cared a great deal about their appearance and she did not want to accidentally cause an incident. Her worry was dispelled by a hearty belly-laugh.

"Might take you up on that. Mate'd be happier with a bit more meat anyway."

"Your mate'll give you hell for going to a non-Hume."

"He can shove it up his arse." Galis shrugged, unconcerned.

Ma'Shenzi couldn't help it. She gave a bell-like laugh and decided she liked the pair. "May I admit to my eavesdropping and ask after what you were discussing when I came by?"

Galis and Chefia looked at each other. "Oh _that,_" said Chefia. "Some new Hume's come in town in the last few weeks. Set up some sort of curio shop up Westfire Bend that's apparently all velvety and blue inside. We've not laid eyes on her personally and she's not opened up yet."

Ah. Trinkets. Ma'Shenzi lost interest in the topic and inclined her head once more. "Thank you, and thank you for indulging my curiosity. If there is aught I can do in return, I have been advised to lodging at a place on Windspear. I am told it is run by a Seeq and will therefore not be turned away for my race?"

"You were told aright," said Galis. "Ten gil a night and don't let him charge you a gil more. He's fair enough, but a bit cranky and no patience for the meek. He'll do a discount for long stays, and if you can do anything for his irritability, the other residents of the area can probably pull together a fund for your lodging." Her light tone told a joke that was implicitly not really a joke. She raised her hand in a polite wave and Chefia followed in turn. Ma'Shenzi dropped a slight bow and returned to shuffling down the street.


	3. 2: Flying and Falling

2.

One Falls, One Flies

Red hair, long, finally too long, fell into his eyes and he pushed it angrily aside as he ran. The clank of booted feet rang too close behind him and he jerked left down an unfamiliar alley. Without a thought and with prompt swallowing of his pride, he flung himself deep into a pile of refuse, tugging more of it over himself. The rank smells and foul liquids burned his bright green eyes and he squeezed them shut against the offense.

Dimly, the young man could hear footsteps and shouted words of command ring past him and continue down the alley. He clutched the bag in his left hand protectively, the day's spoils safe in his grasp. His teeth gritted as something vile dripped down his cheek. This would not be a bright spot in his personal legend. Katen, a proud thief of Old Archades, would not tell the tale of being forced to a hiding place among non-Hume filth.

The footsteps faded enough for his comfort and he oozed out of the pile with a distinctly uncomfortable bit of squelching. A rich shower and a launderer's work might be rough payment in the city-below, but at the moment, he had no qualms about spending the gil. Besides, today's take would surely cover it well enough. He grinned, flexing his hand around the small, richly embroidered pouch. _Noblemen ought know better than travel below with such trinkets in hand,_ he thought to himself. _Too much fun to try for it!_

Impatiently, Katen opened up the bag to see what prize his agile fingers had snagged. Surely it had been enough to gain such attention from the man's personal guard! His smile growing wider, he shook the bag's contents into his dirt-streaked palm – and fell to his knees, ashen, the wide smile gone like unpredictable jagd's whim.

Marbles! Fine glass marbles from the toy-carver on Westfire! And here, the note, claiming it a son's little surprise! Katen's mouth moved in silent anguish. Dirt and dung and unwanted attention, and all he'd managed to do was wreck a father's gift.

Frustrated, he flung the marbles away from him, paying no heed as they scattered about the straw-flecked ground of the alley. The pouch he still gripped in his hand, knuckles white with anger.

_Mocked! Mocked again by Fate! Proud thief me!_

With a hiss, he also cast aside the pretty pouch and rose stiffly to his feet, stalking off down further twisting alleys in search of a corner to beggar a coin for his night's meal.

-----

Nono all but flew down dark corridors with his mind alight and his body overshadowed by the blueprints he carried. His mind raced ahead of him, schematics dancing before his eyes instead of the instinctively familiar Laboratory walls. _If the glossair rings are installed there, and the engine controls THERE, I can increase speed by another 5 percent, making for an overall improved energy capacity rate of 12 percent! That's magnificent, it'll cut the fueling and upkeep budget by… by… oh snerf it, I don't do money._ He chortled lightly to himself and barreled into the drafting room. His pom-pom bobbed, and his fur, still ruffled into rosettes from sleep, bristled as the room's draft struck his small form. A shiver ran through him as he unfurled the thick wad of blueprints onto the worktable.

_Drafty, drafty; was it this drafty when the old bugger was workin' the place? Have to ask sometime._ Nono promptly forgot the thought as he took the white grease-pen and began to scratch new markings onto the airship schematic. It was going to be _wonderful_ stuff; he was ecstatic that he'd woken up from such a deep sleep with it so clear in his mind.

An offended Moogle's squeak startled him and the pen slipped slightly astray, leaving a bay-door's diagram looking as if it had just grown antennae. Nono squeaked back at the mark, irritated, and rubbed a paw-pad over it to erase. Another engineer came into his view, fury plain on the round Moogle face. "'Ere, then! What in _tin blazes_ do you think you're doing with my schems!?"

Nono reared back, surprised at the accusatory tone. Words tumbled from him at a rapid pace. "I'm sorry, Froti, I just had this magnificent idea and I woke up and let myself in and snagged a copy from the commons and thought I'd—"

"Thought you'd what? Steal my project from me?" Froti's pom-pom bobbed in time with the engineer's menacing advance.

Aghast, Nono dropped the grease-pen. "Kupo! No! Never! I just thought—"

"If _thinking_ was involved, I'll bed a Bangaa!"

Tears sprung into Nono's eyes. If there was anything he couldn't bear, it was being yelled at. "I, but, I… but…" He gestured weakly at the fresh marks on the schematic. Surely Froti could see the improvement!

Froti stopped an arm's length from Nono and glanced dismissively at the littler Moogle's additions. "You idiot."

Now Nono felt sure he was going to cry. "What? What is it?"

"You put the rings there and, yeah, the _speed_ will go up. But you just turned the fecking skiff into a two seater. We're contracted for four, or did you forget?" Froti's tone grew milder as he finished speaking, Nono's face showing clearly how every word hit him like a stone. Froti sighed. "Kupo, it's a damn good design, and Bal's got a contract setting up for a two-seater to be built in Bay 9. You'll probably be done with the freighter refit by then, I'll put in a word for your stuff. The client will love it, and Lord Bunansa will be thrilled with you."

Nono tried to hide a sniffle, knowing full well the action was a total failure. Froti was right, even if his opinion of Nono's creative eccentrics was a harsh one, and if there was one truism to be had, it was that Balthy – he couldn't bear to call him 'Lord Bunansa,' – never rose his voice in anger to him. Still, he couldn't shake the feeling that, for all the work he could ever want doing new and ever more ornate ship designs, he was happier back when he was only gear-grinding for the Strahl.

He'd never be fired from Draklor for his quirks. But sometimes the young Moogle wanted to just pack it in and go hide with his brothers for a year. Or twelve. Dejected, Nono apologized to Froti a half-dozen more times, and fluttered off down the hall to find his way back to a restless, unhappy sleep.


	4. 3: Dance and Stand

3.

Dance Across The Floor, Stand Firm And Proud

Sabine stamped her belled feet in time with her finger-cymbals while her half-brother, Shen, promenaded across the smooth floor of the inn with blue and silver scarves swirling artfully around him. One-two went the cymbals – he posed in a graceful uprising arc, spiked black hair as integral to the form as his narrow feet. Three-four – the arc swept into an elegant reversal. The pattern continued for twelve more beats. The symbolism of the crescent moon style was lost on the audience, but it didn't matter to the pair. The art's the thing, of course.

As Shen completed the moon-phase promenade, Sabine pulled the round yellow shawl around her and began her slow, deliberate response, her dark skin and hair showing up nicely in contrast to the bright sanflower dye. At the final crescendo of cymbals, her pale brother joined her and twined his scarves about her stretching limbs – the ritual summoning of a lunar eclipse lost on half-drunk patrons of the inn who instead thought the dance looked weirdly more like incest between the Hume siblings. Sabine snorted to herself in disgust at the occasional sly gaze as her half-brother tensed at her side. Little could be further from the truth.

One pair of hands applauded, however, an honest whistle of appreciation came from near the inn's door. Shen pulled her down into a bow aimed at their one approving patron, only to make an un-Shenlike noise of surprise at the realization that their lone fan seemed to be a young Nu Mou.

"_Don't see the like in this side of town much, save for old Root!"_ came Shen's startled hiss into her ear. Sabine could only make a slight nod of agreement, distracted by her recognition of the hunched creature's garb.

"_She's a Kiltian pilgrim, no wonder she could appreciate the show!"_ Indeed, for it had been during a caravan trip that went past the holy mountain where the pair had learned the ritualistic dance style. The Nu Mou's cheerful smile warmed Sabine and she found herself smiling back just as kindly. After inclining her long face politely at them, the Nu Mou turned away and shuffled towards Hemgot, the Seeq proprietor who had cowed all other taverns on Windspear out of existence by the sheer hostility of his personality. The conversation went unheard and unheeded as Sabine knelt to pack up the rest of their dancing gear. A large Hume footprint had found its way onto one of her best silk scarves, and she grimaced.

Shen danced a gil-coin along the back of his hand while she worked. "Not a bad take for the night, surprisingly. Be enough for our keep and more this week." He ambled off towards Hemgot, who broke off his hushed conversation with the squat acolyte long enough to take his cut from Sabine's handsome-faced kin. Sabine herself shrugged and slipped through the crowd towards the narrow stairwell that led towards the long-term lodging. Luckily for her state of mind, the only other Nu Mou she and Shen knew was nowhere to be seen. Almost certainly he was still in his rooftop garden.

-----

"I am _NOT SHARING!"_ The growl rolled over the fat Seeq, leaving him unmoved. Root felt a burst of barely shamed glee at the sight of the young and pretty Nu Mou all but skittering behind the blue-skinned blob. He hated pretty young girls of all races equally, and bared rather unimposing Nu Mou teeth at the acolyte.

Hemgot crossed his bulging, bumpy arms and looked surprisingly bland. Usually Hemgot was good for a wild burst of bellowing. Kept the heart pumping. Root resettled himself on his cane and curled his wrinkled toes into his dirt and waited for the innkeeper's response. The dull ache in his knee went totally unnoticed; he was far too absorbed in the fresh combat.

"Old fucker." Between them, the flatly stated words were not really an insult – more the circling of old enemies keeping each other strong and agile. "You stink at herbalism, you tell me this all the time. Keep your fucking stinking tubers, and your fucking stinking flowers, and grow me my fucking peppers and fruits. The girl wants a patch for her healing, she can have a patch for fucking healing!" The last was snarled in classic Hemgot bile, and Root caught a glimpse of the acolyte girl behind him practically levitating towards the exit by degrees.

"Give me one good reason – there's fucking healers all over this fucking town!"

"None of those fuckers have managed to fix this fucking boil on my fucking ass yet!" There was a mental image for the ages. The old Nu Mou bared his teeth in a grimace of disgust, just knowing the idea of bare and unhealthy Seeq ass was going to stick with him well into the night.

"Rub a fucking tuber on it and leave me the fuck alone!"

"_What?"_ came the horrified shriek from the other Nu Mou. Root stared at her like she'd just fallen off a tuber cart. Hemgot's neck made an audible noise as his head shot around. Obviously he'd forgotten about her presence during their fencing.

"Rub tuber on boil, burn, or corn," Root explained to the acolyte in painfully clear tones. "Name the tuber after an enemy, bury it at a crossroads, and your boil or whatever will vanish within a fortnight." _What in hells do they teach the youngbloods these days? Leeches and tubers and a good roll of dark tape, fix anything! It's probably all alchemy and sorcery by now._ Root snorted to himself.

He surprised himself by backing up when the girl advanced on him. He was vaguely aware of Hemgot's own arched and bulging brow. "Bury. The tuber," the girl repeated back to him as if reading a story to an idiot child. Root's face burned. "What _century_ are you from?" she shrieked.

Root collected himself and fired back with the ammo given to him. "One where we knew better than to bark at our elders!" That struck; the acolyte's brow rose into the stratosphere. At least he could rely on the Kiltians to instill that special blend of groveling meekness into its followers.

Except – the girl rallied. "That may be so, but bad advice is bad advice! If the boil goes in a fortnight, all it means is time took care of the problem." Shit, the brat had a spine that the church hadn't wholly extracted yet. Root found himself taking another step back from her vehemence. At this rate, he might actually lose the combat. Horror! "And if it doesn't go away, then the problem's compounded by exposure to dirty elements! You don't even _at least_ suggest the damn tuber to be washed first!" Her stubby hands flew into the air. "Wild, outdated, fantastical superstitions!"

Root set his jaw. "Kiltian heresy. The old ways are better!"

"I don't care! My healery works, that's what I care about!"

He narrowed his eyes. He could sneak a draw right there and make it look like he was the one being magnanimous. It would buy time for a rematch. "All right!" he snarled crisply. "Fifteen by ten, over by the gramarch fruits. Grow your damn herbs and I'll keep with my tubers, and we'll see what gives Hemgot a better share of profit!"

"Fine!"

"Fine!" he shot back, for no reason but to have the last word.

The Seeq threw his hands up, an ugly echo of the young Nu Mou's recent action. _"FINE!_ At least I've got you lot on separate floors."

Root held his ground and squelched dirt into mud between his toes as the innkeeper ushered the girl out. _The rudeness these days! Little bratchild didn't even give her name!_

The tiny fact that he hadn't bothered to introduce himself, either, went without his notice.


	5. 4: Viera in a Barn, Heard This One?

4.

So These Two Viera Go Into A Barn, Have You Heard This One?

"Hey, hey, bunny-kin! Pull up your choco and bring her over here! I'll take care of you right!"

Mjrn pulled the deep-red chocobo up with a start, wide hazel eyes and softly twitching Viera ears unable to absorb the presentation before her. Certainly, this was a fellow Viera, and certainly she ought be glad of a gentler welcome then her older, deeply puzzled sister had told her to expect, but not _this._

In contrast to Mjrn's traditional Viera elegance – wispy clothes, ornately forged claw-shoes, and tall blackwood bow – stood another who sounded and looked almost entirely Hume. High-footed boots with leather at the toes cut out for sharp feet, admittedly comfortable looking trousers riding low on dark-skinned hips, and a big grin on a face meant for haughty, all traits more expected from lumbering, unwelcome foreigners. Mjrn blinked rapidly and kept her silence. Perhaps it was a mirage.

"Aw, _attil astaris_, don't be that way."

The brows of Fran's little sister drove up into her hairline. The wood-tongue, on top of the ridiculous presentation, was too much for her to bear. "You—You _are_ sister-kin?"

A tight-bound white pony-tail shook at the question. "Second-gen away from Her, but true enough I'm all Viera. You'd like it better if I sounded more like your sisters? If you're here on the edge of Archades, it isn't sisterhood you're looking for."

True words, but – "'T'would may be so, but would it serve my peace if I called you sister where sisters might hear and shun?"

"You're already going to be shunned, _astaris_. By Viera more than Hume, even here in Oldtown, and if you weren't warned of that, I'll beggar my bod to a Moogle." Mjrn's face seized up, holding back the fright and tears. That was true enough as well – if she turned back from the Wood's words, her _agil astaris_ would defy the tradition but the once to welcome her home, but here? Harsher words than the strange Viera's waited ahead. "Oh hells, don't cry on me. I can't stand crying and I'm low on chocoa for comfort."

"Cho…chocoa?"

"Dammit." The strange Viera may have sworn, but there was no frustration in it. "Oh well, easier to demonstrate. C'mon, let me stable your bird in the barn and I'll talk you through your first few days in the big scary world. What's your name, sister?"

"…Mjrn."

"_Mjrn?_" She reared back. "_That_ Mjrn, Fran's Mjrn?" She put a hand on her chest and stopped herself at Mjrn's look of abject terror. "Oh Faram, I am just fucking it up today. It's okay, there's no warrant out for you or nothing. I do a chocobo for damn near everyone sooner or later, and I did one for the famed Fran, and got a bit of chatter."

"…Famed?" Mjrn flushed. She realized her meek tone was starting to make her sound a fool.

"Famed, aye, a war hero and practically the real power at Draklor Laboratories, to hear the Bangaa workmen tell it. Lord Bunansa's a good man, but scattery and better to look at than think with. Not sure I wholly believe it, he's been through, too, and there's a bit of brains upstairs – but off I go again."

Lord Bunansa, war heroes, nethicite-hungry _Draklor_? If wishes could pop into being by simply trying very hard, Mjrn would be back in the trees already, a book in her hand and the Wood's words e'er unspoken. Her confusion cast her about, her mind a-storm.

"Maybe I should just shut up and take care of ya, and you can ask questions and get sorted out at your own pace. How does that sound?"

Magnificently sensible and much more soothing, that's how that sounded. Mjrn smiled with relief and began to dismount the wearily cooing bird. "What…" Oh, that wouldn't do, she still sounded meek. She straightened up. She was Jote's sister, a child of the Wood, though all would take her for mere exile. There could be pride in the burden, and she tried to wear it. "What's your name?"

The weird Viera gave her such an odd look that Mjrn began to shrink in on herself again before realizing it was a look of self-disgust. "Aye, me. Too much time spent with the birds, I go bird-brained myself. I'm Jita." She stuck a slightly dirty hand out to Mjrn, and it took a moment before she realized it was the Hume's way of greeting. Gingerly, she reached out her own to find it grasped in a surprisingly strong grip. "Mjrn, welcome to Old Archades. Are you ever in for it now!"

-----

Two days and ten different runarounds, all for a stupid sideline article – "_Noble's Marbles Lost, Another Noble's Marbles In The Fire?"_ Apopo knew it was a ridiculous concept – really, the great Pirate Lord of Archades diddling around with a cheap snatch and run in Oldtown for a laugh? Not himself, nor would he waste the time to pay a cutpurse to do the gag, the Moogle figured, but still, the editor signed the journalist's paychecks. He had to give it a fair shake before turning in his own version of the article.

That said, staring up at the armored and justifiably famous Fran's butt (Fran was famous, too, but the gossip writer – a Seeq – liked the butt more and it was that Apopo thought of first) as he waited for his chance to – ha-ha- grill His Lordship, Apopo was starting to wonder if he shouldn't have followed his brothers into carpentry.

At least then he could cobble up some steps to pinch the view. Not that the idea excited him, but eating off the story's revenue for a decade would be worth the likely amputation his hand would receive.

As if reading his mind, Fran turned and stared down at the blotchy-furred Moogle. _Bloody ink gets everywhere,_ Apopo's mind flashed at him. He felt like a rabbit in a hunter's snare as the dark, dark eyes bored into his. _NEWSFLASH: Famous Fran A Magnificent Mentalist! You Too Can Have All Your Pervert Thoughts Revealed!_ He swallowed audibly and gamely smiled up at her.

Fran's expression never changed. His smile faltered and he thought again of trapped lupines. _Ironic, considering the slang_, his mind jibbered idiotically at him. _I should think of Behemoths instead. Clever, inquisitive Behemoths that can smell you out as easily as just stomp you, you wily reporter, you. _His eyes caught sight of the bow-stand that stood in the lobby of the director's offices. _Oh kupo, she's armed._

_OF COURSE SHE'S ARMED, YOU STUPID MOOGLE. SHE'S FRAN, THE DESTROYER!_

A squeak escaped him when a door flung open. Fran never moved, but Apopo was struck by a sudden, desperate need to visit the little Moogle's room. Lord Balthier Bunansa took in the scene with an elegantly arched eyebrow of amusement. "Time for my interview, then?"

"kupo" Apopo uttered as his affirmative, in the meekest, weakest, tiniest voice he had. The lord gave him a puzzled look before glancing at Fran. An odd expression of sympathy and amusement passed across the finely dressed Hume's face and he waved Apopo inside, to the Moogle's massive relief.

-----

"So," said Lord Bunansa after the door shut behind them. "She's a bit of unholy terror, isn't she?"

"Never even said a word, lord, didn't have to, the look was enough." _Oh Faram, I am burbling. Get it together!_ He whipped out his little notepad and a pen, taking the Moogle sized seat that the lord gestured to on his way to his own, obnoxiously comfortable looking chair. Apopo eyed it with a bit of covetousness. He had a cushioned stool at the reporter's hall. Balthier's hands lightly gripped the armrests of the chair with nearly tangible possessiveness. "'S' a nice chair. Where'd you get it?" Apopo asked casually.

"Dalmasca. Don't ask the cost. You don't want to know, and I like the chair too much to dwell on it." Apopo nodded at the answer and chose to skip jotting it down. After a moment's sensible contemplation, he decided to also skip asking if he could sit in it a moment. Pinching Viera rump might be an easier proposition.

Apparently, the lord was also a mentalist, as he abruptly switched gears back to the earlier topic. "You were staring, weren't you?"

Apopo cleared his throat and tapped his pen on his notepad. He was on one side of the desk in his role as investigative journalist, the Hume before him was his prey. The mighty Moogle was not to be sidetracked. "If I could just get your initial statement on Lord Farleigh's claims—"

"I think everyone that visits the Lab goes through that at least once. Some of the women, too. Larsa's initiative for richer racial harmony will only soothe Fran, I think. People can stare at someone else for a change."

He tried again. "Facile or no, it's a serious charge, and it's not exactly wildly out of place considering your reputation—"

"Of course, one of the old scientists did suggest I ask her to wear Hume-style pants once. I declined; I don't need her giving me _that look_ any more frequently than she already does."

Apopo slapped the notepad on the lord's desk in frustration. "I am _not_ here to do an expose on Viera asses, kupo!"

"Oh, like you'd mind."

"We have a Seeq on staff for that!" Apopo bit off his sentence by clicking his teeth together, suddenly realizing that his temper had a real shot at getting him into trouble. His worry was deflated by Bunansa's amused smirk.

"I've read your articles, Apopo. What the hell are you doing at a useless rag like the Jumble anyway?"

_Oh, kupo. I've lost control of what should have been a brainlessly easy interview and now I'm the one on the grill. I stink. On ice. I could still be a carpenter._ Sure that his face betrayed his thoughts, he settled for a simple, factual, "They pay the bills and The Eye prefers Humes."

"Bother, I keep forgetting I'm still surrounded by narrow-minded sots. Their loss." Miraculously, the Lord tossed Apopo some mercy by handing the interview back to him. "I got the report on the incident when it first came down. I was in Oldtown at the time, yes, and I was with Judge Magister Gabranth at a nice bar on Westfire, having beer. Draklor had its six-month inspection, came up clean, and the Judge and I are old friends."

"Hell of an ironclad alibi, kupo." The best gratitude a reporter could give, in Apopo's opinion, was to continue the interview fairly for all concerned. He put a derisive edge on his next statement to show his opinion, but kept the words neutral for the written record. "My editor wanted me to check out the idea that you hired the job out, to make Farleigh look bad for his son and the council."

Balthier caught the tone and gave Apopo a wry smile. "By all accounting, the gift was spur of the moment and Farleigh had made no plans to go to Old Archades until moments before he did. I'm good, I'm damned good, but I'm not prescient and I'd not waste the gil on such a weak game."

Apopo wrote down the reply with a grunt, but the Lord wasn't done yet. "There's been a marked rise in cutpurses down near the Sochen Palace alleys, and I'd suspect it was one of them that did it on a whim. If so, find who whined the loudest for their supper after the grab. It'd be someone deeply distraught over the worth of their take."

The pen skritched down Balthier's words while Apopo's mind mulled them over. It was a good line of inquiry. "Did you mention that to the Oldtown justice?"

"I did, but I doubt they'll follow up. Noble's yowl or no, it's a minor matter and they're busier tying up bigger fare."

"Mmm."

"They also told me, 'they' being a young guardsman with a bright career ahead of him whom I won't name, that such a research sample could be easily yet astray. Seems there's a young rake down there with a whine fit for hounds. Might do to take a look at him first. Probably wants to make a name for himself, not that I'd know anything about _that._"

"Speaking of yourself, m'lord?"

The reply was dry, dry, dry. "Oddly, no. I am regrettably familiar with the chaperoning of children with big dreams."

Ah. Vaan, the friendliest Sky Pirate on record. Where Balthier's legend cast him as untouchable, devious, distant, and charming, his sun-kissed apprentice was usually referred to as "that sweet little man." Vaan never seemed to mind, but the topic was rumored to give Lord Bunansa critical levels of nausea. Apopo dropped the tangent. "Got a name for the youngblood rake that I could check into?"

"On the record? No. Might be a redhead."

Apopo knew an opening when he heard it. He clicked the pen away, flipped his notepad shut, and plopped his furry little hands in his lap. "Off the record, kupo?"

"Some rash child named Katen. Can't be very good, has a list of filches longer than a Viera's legs."

A still-fresh image flashed through Apopo's brain and he scowled. "That was just mean, kupo."

Balthier put on his most charming, brilliant smile. "Of course."

Insanity struck Apopo like a bolt. "If you want to apologize, I'd ask for a moment to sit in that chair."

"Not a chance in hell."


	6. 5: Bangaa Ears and Future's Shades

5.

Bangaa Ears Beat Their Smell, The Future's Bright Enough For Shades

Ba'Gaturn laid a bronzed shingle down, tapped it into place with his hammer, and then repeated the process with the sort of single-mindedness that marked a martial art. His eyes, virtually worthless compared to his other senses, focused on nothing. Yet his thick orange fingers kept safely clear of each rhythmic thump. That the roof was more like a perch, high, high up to be on par with noble homesteads meant nothing to him. Sure, if he peered over the back end he'd see not much but zooming airships and some low clouds, but he'd more likely roll down the front and land on the little winding avenue if something awkward happened and do not much more'n bang up his bad arm a bit.

Roofing was nothing; he could do it one-armed and half dead. Rewiring the place, now… leave it for the Moogles. Too much little crap to deal with. But Emperor Larsa wanted the Rozarrian Embassy fresh and shiny, and what the Emperor wanted, the Emperor got.

The craggy old Bangaa was getting paid union scale and liked it; further, doing the roofing gave him prime gossip entertainment. These Hume girls these days – do whatever they want with no consequence, they thought. Well, he'd heard a few that'd have a baking bill due in nine months or so, and they can have it, by his mark. _That Margrace can help them out to his heart's content, but stupid was as stupid did_. In his opinion, it was throwing good money after bad art, but, well, perhaps the brats would someday benefit.

Pragmatic opinion to the side, Ba'Gaturn had heard the watery-voiced Hume noble come and go more than a small handful of times since the refurbishing of the embassy began early in the year and held a begrudgingly positive opinion of the fellow. Sure, the little cuckoo girls were odd, and the man had a fetish for strange, useless spectacles (_eyesight's bad enough between our two races, why'd he go and make it worse_?), but hell. Man's heart was in the right place. Defender of the weak and all that.

_Thunk._ Bah, that one had sounded close. The Bangaa gave a grunt and found his rhythm again. A musical accent drifted up to his excellent ears. Damn him for a lucky one, there came Al-Cid even as Ba'Gaturn thought of him, turning down the avenue with an old Hume man that Ba'Gaturn didn't recognize, even as the pair grew close enough for weak eyes to examine.

Curiosity was a hunter's old habit, and one that died hard. He tugged a hidden bit of line and noiselessly pulled the main embassy's office window up the barest of degrees as the pair filed inside. No spy for profits he, just as nosy as his snout belied.

-----

"And the Laboratory is still coming up clean?" The inquiry burbled from dark lips as Al-Cid Margrace casually handed his shaded spectacles to one of his 'birds.'

The response was as stiff as the question had been liquid. "As ever, Lord Margrace. The Bunansa's crimes are all social; he takes the greatest of care with Draklor. Even his increasing oversight and accountability procedures do nothing to halt the facility's success."

"Pleasing, particularly since he made such a point of neglecting military contracts."

"Once a rebel, always a rebel."

"Larsa blesses him for it."

"As he ought; Gramis's legacy still runs too true in the old nobility."

"Mmm." Margrace poured himself, catlike, into a reclining chair. If he caught the barest draft from the cracked window, he showed no sign of it. "Once was, always is, you say?" His companion's lined face drew into deeper scowls, a gnarled hand pushing up through tufts of snow-white hair. The topics of ex-judgeship were always sore ones in Archadia.

"There might be exceptions."

Margrace smiled innocently at the old Hume man. "Perhaps. But not here." He waved aside the old man's grunt of displeasure at the piercing reference. "But let's speak of other things. Draklor may no longer humor power-hungry military, but that doesn't mean others would not drink of their gifts."

"Bah!" The old man stalked to another chair and settled himself in it with an arthritic wince. "Three squabble between themselves for the richest contracts. One will certainly fail – Moogles make the best mechanics, but fat, power-hungry, racist Humes stay fat, power hungry, and racist just as much now as they did before Vayne. Just as well, the military doesn't need more competence than it's got."

"That would be Sweegy Shipyards. What are the other two?"

"Humes, both. One's a reformed sky-pirate lair, but shit on the accountants. Again, if they'd use Nu Mou… but, well." A dismissive shrug. "They've a chance for some of them. A big frigate contract, maybe a smaller battleship or two. That's Farpoint Shipyards on the edge of Balfonheim."

No response from Margrace; he seemed to be waiting. The old man paused to make a face, as if something sour had flooded his mouth. "Ach. The other's doing mining uncomfortably close to Giruvegan for my taste. Can't find proof of it, the mineral goes through too many layers for me to unwind. But they're clean as hell otherwise. New company, but picked up a lot of the old, disgruntled scientists that Bunansa let go when he reorganized. Good minds for the job, but the newness of the company'll work against them. Still, with their pedigree and that Lord Farleigh's backing on the court, I give them the best odds. Previa Portage, docks and offices here and elsewhere on the Phon coast." The old man had bright blue eyes, and they watched the Rozarrian noble with the care of a focused snake.

"Lord Farleigh's pets? Puts the little incident from the other day in better perspective. Oh, you Archadians. Not a glass falls from a table without it having two different meanings or more. Stole my son's marbles, my arse." Al-Cid stretched back in his chair with deceptive relaxation, and a decidedly unsurprised tone at the report… probably because he already had heard most of it. "Watch them the most, Rachenbaath, and report to me anything odd you hear. Particularly this _Giruvegan_ connection. The Lord Bunansa would be most distressed to hear of unusual activity from that quarter as well. To say nothing of the young Emperor."

The old man grunted amiably. "Pay's the usual."

"Of course. Good information is worth the dear coin." Margrace lilted his voice, implying he had more to say.

Rachenbaath picked up on it immediately. "Is there else worth as much?"

"Companionship. In my opinion, the Lord Bunansa has few allies in the greater court. Surely he could see the worth in a new friend."

A short burst of rough laughter filled the room. "Such a ruse will not fool a man like that, and you know it. His Viera friend would stick me like a steer if I made insult."

"Don't bother to hide, then. He'll respect a spy in plain sight better, and all will benefit. He and I are no enemies, of course."

Rachenbaath rose from the chair, wincing afresh. "Tangled webs between us all. How will it all end up?"

"How indeed, old friend. The best for all concerned, I can only hope."

"In the context of history, a delightful switch." The old man bobbed his head by way of courtly respect and excused himself. As the door shut behind the aged ex-Archadian Judge, Al-Cid glanced idly at the barely cracked window, dark-skinned fingertips tapping together. _A Bangaa's ears are priceless tools in the right environ, and I would rather such tools found homes with me. I shall have to keep an eye on old Ba'Gaturn._

_Much seems to be roiling under deceptively calm currents._


	7. Interlude I: Moments Between, And One

Interlude:

Three Moments Between A Moment, And The Moment After

.i.

_::Wake now, little lord, the silver cord snapp'd in twain and the course laid bare for future's sail. Here you are in home's warm hearth, but needs must not tarry. You carry us all, and us all you will heed. Rise, rise, rise, Doctor –and live.::_

Images flashed through his addled mind as a chorus of many voices faded away. A door, a box, a hidden key. Colors blinded him, a rainbow slashing before his eyes like knives… or were they stones? Yes. That was it.

He shook himself and rose first to his knees. The room swirled around him, familiar, but night-darkened. The last confused him most, for time seemed thick and heavy, his eyes, unspectacled and over-old, trying to make sense of the information given to him. Bell-like voices hummed, a cacophony of aural delight but without organic echo. Dimly he realized that the voices were in his mind alone.

He was not given space to contemplate the disturbing development. Instead his feet, unused to this new life, forced themselves forward towards another room. A … yes, he did recognize it. A library. Like a dream, or a nightmare, his feet moved without sensation, but he put out his hand to rest it against the door as it approached. It opened before him without a creak and he continued across the little library until confronted with a bland stretch of old, dimpled wood wall.

Now the sensation of his hands slipped away and his fingers danced from dimple to dimple with alien agility. He watched with interest, the world still hazy and distant to him.

A memory came to him, but briefly, and slipped away again. A boy, hunched over a book almost as big as he – bright, bright eyes already squinted with a touch of the near-sighted, lips reading along to some unremembered words. A sensation warmed him—_love_, it was named. Yes. That was it. He smiled, forgetting that his body moved without his will to guide it.

Ah! The old compartment. A boy's little secrets. The smile vanished as his hand slithered into the pile of stones laid bare by actions he could not feel.

_::A kindness done, though sure to be mark'd as other. Gathered for us, the schedule sped, a difficulty avoided. We are pleased, and will grant the mercy you beg, though Hume's loved 'fate' and 'will' marks him a danger. He will sleep and dream and wake in morr'w – and you, you, you return'd to direct, though not in halls familiar::_

_::Heretic guides you once, and e'er you desire your gentle rest, you'll take our guidance now. Fate will be ours again to control, and you, sweet rebel, will be our hand.::_

As if to illustrate the point, his hand, with fingers once arthritic and knuckles stiff and easily sore, curled around the thirteen stones one after another – crushing them with ease and scattering dark dust through the cabinet and down the wall.

Shadows bled from the stones as they crumbled, splitting, and splitting again, twelve and then twenty-four, though one stone bled not at all. A murmur of disapproval was heard for a moment, and then gone, as the shadows themselves blended with the night - moon's light gone unnatural, red, and _cold - _and vanished.

Doctor Cidolfus Demens Bunansa shook dust from his fingers and slipped away into red-hued shadows. He did not think too hard on what his hands had done. Better to not. Let the Occuria act as they will. His purpose was, in defiance of all his work, not for him to dictate now.

.ii.

The little boy blinked bright, bright eyes of hazel-green, and watched Doctor Cid stalk away without a sound. Dark blonde hair fell about his ears in unruly, overlong mop, and the white cotton shirt shined in the weirding light like a brand.

He blinked again – and peered down at a face echoed by his own, only all angles and wry lines where the boy's still bore the sweet roundness of his youth. The man moaned faintly in his sleep, but did not otherwise stir.

Blink – Blink – Blink, and more. From room to room where all tossed and turned, taken by a fitful dozing, he stopped and looked at each, and each did not look back. Only that same soft moan would greet his coming and going. Here a Hume, there a Bangaa, then a pair of Viera one after the other. More and more, and over a dozen – now a second Nu Mou, and there was near a shock – the girl Nu Mou did not stir awake, but nor did the moan come. Instead, burred by sleep, came a dreaming query: _"Are you lonely, child?"_ He blinked away swiftly at that one, unready to talk yet to the dreamers who would soon no longer dream through the soundless red night.

Blink! And red turned to blue.

A Hume woman with ageless white face hooded within blue velvet robe smiled red lips up at the boy from where she sat behind blue-satin table. Beneath her white left hand rested a tall deck of cards. Beneath her other lay stones of black and white, carved with zodiac marks. "It is time," he whispered to her, his voice gentle. She did not respond at first, merely watched him with eyes of bright gold, black merely pinpricks within the unsettling stare. He widened his own eyes, ready to blink again.

"Time is never to be declared." She paused to emphasize her import. "Time does not wait."

He blinked away.

.iii.

It was that dream again. Shattering airship crumbling about him, Fran nowhere to be found, no ways to hail the Strahl, no comforting Moogle chirp to help guide the way. As the dull, floatless metal fell to earth around him, the scene morphed to airships long since dead. Balthier didn't want to see that again, then or ever, had he the choice. Often enough had the nightmare come that he always fought it. He turned to flee towards better memories, the thick white tunic he'd worn in the alien future seeming to catch on every piece of jutting, rusting steel.

_This way_

He paused in his struggle against the choking wreckage, the sound of distant combat and furious darkling scion fading away for a moment. He glanced around, wondering where the unfamiliar, faded voice came from.

_This way!_ Stronger now, and it was decidedly coming from behind him. But that way lay the battlefield. He'd lived it once, seeing the horrific would-be Gods again did not appeal to him, even if he knew it was a dream. Still, he felt a pull.

_THIS WAY!_

Unable to resist, he turned and marched towards the rising shrieks of Hashmal's suicide and the meaty sounds of Humes falling to pieces before inhuman assault, passing through a shaded red curtain of gore—

And found himself enveloped by sapphire blue.

"Time does not wait," said the white-faced Hume woman, her tone wry as if repeating herself. He glanced around. There was no one else with them.

A roar rose in the distance – the memory of Hashmal's death lingered with the Sky Pirate well into most nights – and he shuddered, suddenly disgusted with showing his weakness before the ageless blue-robed figure. Certainly he was no coward, but the fall of the leonine figure had troubled something deep inside him.

Long, colorless hands moved, and cards spread onto the table between them in a wide fan. Twenty-two; he knew the number instinctively, but not its meaning here. More were set aside in a set of four distinct piles.

Then a set of thirteen black stones was placed before him. "Ah," he said, his thoughts too quick in dreams for sleeper's tongue to hold back. "The Zodiac."

"The Zodiac has but twelve signs for all to know." Her voice was low, with a rich, sonorous quality to it that was nearly masculine. There was no mocking sound to her voice, but he heard it anyway.

"There are thirteen, but no one is born under Ophiuchus, the great leviathan," he tossed back in even tones. "And besides, I dream. There might be forty in this time and place."

"Or twenty-five." She smiled, and the smile was old and more like a white leather mask made to smile.

Balthier looked around, seeing nothing but lapis drapery. _What brings a dream as odd as this?_ Idle question, who knew what the subconscious sketched?

The woman pushed forward one of the black stones. He felt his gaze drawn to it, noting the little circle and arcing line. Leo, his own natal sign. "Hashmal," she said to it.

This was getting to be a bit too much, even for his subconscious. A musical troupe of Vieras would have been richly preferable. "What?" he queried politely.

"You thought to protect, but instead manipulated fate into forbidden order. The sin was innocent, the outcome yet to be decided. The payment for your act is now in collection, as you well knew would come." She swept the stone away from his view, mingling it beneath the others. The fan of cards ruffled and one flipped over. It was painted with a bright red sun. That too was swept away, and the fan folded into its original neat stack. "You are in the Velvet Room. I thought to take your measure before flesh's face made mystery less plain to me." She smiled again, a total lack of warmth, but also a total lack of hostility. "But by coming here twixt the moments, the Dark Hour's birth, a contract is forced between you and I. You'll find it adds no burden to you – well, except for once, but not to worry upon that yet. Here," and with a gesture appeared a piece of parchment.

Scrawled in fine silver was a simple enough phrase – "I accept my fate of my own free will." He leaned close, and noted it was merely one copy of at least a dozen, if not a little more. "Yes, yes," she muttered impatiently. "You will not be alone in the future's weave, though not even I see its ends. Choose whether to sign or no, and you'll waken."

_Getting out of this dream would be delightful!_ He reached for the pen that also appeared next to the small sheaf of contracts. No harm to sign, of course fate and free will were his! His father had seen to that – though the method chosen had left his name marked as villain rather than hero.

Choice.

Worry surged through him as he finished leaving his first name in elegant silver scrawl on ivory parchment.

"There, then, it's done, and don't think to renege!" The woman smiled again, all teeth and red lips, and emotionless, unblinking gold eyes. "You'll come to me by day before the moon reaches its fullness. I am below, a mere curio shop run by Miss Selenay, though you will ask for me by this name: I am, for you and your fate-bound kin, Risa Adel Yigori. You will not forget. Now, awake!"

-----

Balthier came to with a start, already seated upright in his bed at ancestral home. He turned his head and fumbled a hand over the bedside table, coming up with the cunningly designed Moogle clock and squinted at the time it told him – 12:01. He swore, knowing full well he'd not rest more that night.

The worry felt in his dreams rose in him once more, and he threw himself out of bed as awake as if an airship klaxon had bestirred him instead of disturbing dreams. He pulled a robe around his chilled bare chest and loose sleeping-trou and hurried downstairs to check on what nagged at his consciousness, pausing only to grab a gun on his way.

Stairs and halls and now the door, already pushed open though he knew full well he'd left it shut before retiring. Hesitant, the gun in his hand and a weird certainty in his mind of what he'd see, he pushed the library door open the rest of the way and saw silver moonlight pool and sparkle along dust and jagged shards. A black hole gaped from far walls, as if to say _yes, you cannot misinterpret this._

Balthier's jaw clenched. Words in five languages rose to his lips and failed him. Eloquent curses roiled through his brain, and his fingers curled, white-knuckled, around the butt of Ras Algethi. To sum up, he fell back to the simple crudity of youth.

"_SHIT!"_


	8. Pt 2: 1: 15 Minutes to Midnight

Part Two:

The Dark Hour: Primae Noctis

1.

Balthier: 15 Minutes To Midnight

Balthier wrenched the spectacles from his face with a force borne of violent frustration and tossed them onto one of the little library's desks with a clatter. Almost a full day had passed since his queasy discovery of the shattered stones, and nothing had come of his investigation. He put his hands on his hips and hung his head, regathering his thoughts as he stood alone in an unlit room.

Certainly, he felt unable to call upon the Judges for assistance. While a break-in had occurred, he had no good answer for the inevitable query on what had been taken, nor had the intruder left a single bit of traceable evidence. Not a footprint, nor fingermark left upon the wall. That disturbed him the most. _Servants have all changed, the libraries are mine alone, he's dead, and I've no other close kin. Who's left that would even know about the little nooks?_

_Hell, even thinking backwards farther yet, I don't think Kiltian monasteries and cheap trinket collectors would band together for this level of invasion, even if I'd left any trail behind me when I took the damned things._

What struck him odder yet was the destruction of the stones – it had been his own plan to do much the same, but only once he'd ensured that to do so would not cause something worse than the future he'd seen. Much of his private money had gone to fund his researches, and there were several Nu Mou scholastic abbeys bearing more luxuries than they had ever known. Draklor's militant blood money bent to better ends, there was at least that blessing he could claim. Now the unknown had happened, and, heavy donations and scores of texts later, he was no closer to that discovery than when he'd palmed the first stone.

His brow furrowed, aging his face into an echo of his father's, though it would not have pleased him to know it. The dream of the night before forced itself on his thoughts, and his jaw set. _The dream said nothing more than what I worried on myself. By collecting the stones together under my own purposes, I feared one thing more than anything else – do I make similar mistakes as he? He felt he did right by Mankind to the end._

Balthier cleared his brow and forced himself to relax. Dreams were dreams, and the stones, his burden, were gone. Perhaps, after all, it was good news; another responsibility set aside.

"You did not come to the Laboratory today," said Fran's exotic accent, startling Balthier from his thoughts. He whirled his head and saw her framed in the doorway, a hall's lamp lighting her silhouette from behind. Suspicion colored his mind for a fraction of a second, and he chuckled it away. "My words are funny to you?"

He waved his hand. She alone he could trust entire; no, her hand in the stones' destruction was an impossible idea. "No, no. Something else crossed my mind. Did the researchers start frothing?"

"They did not, but little Nono asked after you, concerned. He seemed… troubled today, restless, a bit unslept. Much like yourself, of late." She gave him one of her brief little smiles. "Perhaps I should have the drinking water checked."

"Hmm." He smiled back. "Perhaps. Or the piped-in air, which reminds me, I have got to have that draft hunted down."

"A security matter, perhaps?"

"Doubtful, sister, doubtful. Not a fly enters without someone recording it. The first thing we did was cut off every exploit I ever knew about, and found a handful that I hadn't."

"You repeat things I was there for. You are troubled, your eyes tell me so. Did something happen here?" She sent her gaze around the room, pausing over the walls and over a bit of grit remaining from the wreckage of the zodiacs.

"Perhaps nothing. I don't know. If I figure out a way to explain it, you'll be the first." He flicked his hand dismissively, a sign that he had given up on a topic and that he deemed it worth no more thought for now.

Fran shrugged and let it go, slipping away from the door. "If aught might be done, you know I will come."

-----

Distantly, one of his larger clockworks began to chime the arriving midnight hour.

-----

"I know, old friend. Thank you." Balthier turned his head to watch her go, and instead saw the world go strange. A dark crystal, boxlike, and not entirely solid stood where Fran ought to be, though he could see only a corner of it. The crystal was highlighted by red light that seemed to stream from the window behind him, but the hall's warm light seemed gone. Slowly, a crawling sense of unreality overtaking him, Balthier turned his head to see a bloated red moon sitting high up in the sky, pouring its cold ruby light across Ivalice.

"…Fran?" he whispered, feeling a childlike terror gnaw in his gut like worms. He took a hesitant step towards the library's door, close enough to see Viera ankle caught in midstep, frozen within the crystal trap. Balthier stepped back again, and now turned to rush towards the window, looking down on Archades with dawning comprehension.

Below, he could barely pick out a handful of other crystals, each sprouting from the ground as if grown like strange grasses. Red light pooled around the crystals like blood. The city itself was stopped, no breeze rattling the windows, and no lights burned from anywhere in the city.

His dream from the night before returned to him with a vengeance, and he staggered back from the glass. _No dream!_ his mind gibbered. _The red curtain, it was no dream!_

Balthier put his face in his hands as if hiding away from this new alien world, and thought of an ageless white face.


	9. 2:2: The Curtain, The Tower, The View

2.

The Curtain, The Tower, The View From Below

The still, silent night enveloped Ivalice, the moon an alien shape from where it hung, looking as if centered on Archades, a bloodshot, vile eye- an unholy moon ever round and overripe.

Cities went quiet as the red curtain dropped: Dalmasca frozen, Rozarria ensorcelled, the far countries gone dim and dumb. As the world paused for this impossible break in time, shadows splintered off and fled across the land, leaving things broken and bled as they passed.

Far south of Archades stood a man who did not watch the moon, but instead the forbidden gates of Giruvegan. His eyes did not blink as a mortal's might, and the smile on his lips was cruel. The body watched for the sake of others, the mind had already learned to cower away within.

Giruvegan rose, the pit reversed, a tower of jags and spires reached for bloody moon instead of foggy, endless depths. Platforms and wending stairs could be glimpsed through narrow, unfriendly windows, and _things_ flitted back and forth within. Howls and snaps and growls began, lowing calls to the moon they loved, and Cid's skin trembled despite the Occuria crawling beneath it.

Within his mind, his narrow trap, with only the memories of his son and wife and Venat to stand by the doors and protect, he sealed himself further away from the horror that masqueraded as reality while the chattering host guided his flesh to its long, long ascent.

-----

At a forest edge, at the stable that marked a now-policed route from world beyond through shortened Sochen passages, a Viera in Hume sleeping-garb awoke with a start. Outside, the crying chirp of terror that had pierced her dream faded away, and the sound of something tearing wetly replaced it. Trembling, she crept to the window and peered out, seeing a shadow slip away – and a ruined chocobo left behind in a red pool of blood and light. A tear of both fear and sorrow for the dead bird slipped down her face, and she slid down the little shanty's wall, now too scared to investigate the spare room she'd lent to Mjrn. The door to it stood open, and for the first time in a decade, Jita uttered a heartfelt prayer to the Wood.

-----

Shen pulled himself out of the careworn bedroll and shook his half-sister's shoulder. He hissed her name once, then again, and it was on the next violent shake that she bestirred herself with a sleepy murmur, opened her eyes to look at him, lined in ruby glimmer, and then fell asleep again, unmoved.

"Damn!" He sighed, used to it. Sabine slept like the dead. It made his love life easier, but the occasional fast escape slower. Shen struggled upright and padded his way barefoot to the little room's door and into the hall. He squinted hard, looking for signs of any other life, but on top of all the other oddity, the power appeared to be out.

As the dancer's eyes adjusted, he noticed that Ma'Shenzi's door had been left open, and he slipped towards it hesitantly. "Healer! Hey, healer; you awake?" He pushed it open with a creak and saw the room was empty. With a puzzled grunt, he let the door swing shut again, careful to catch it on the little wood block on the floor. The Nu Mou would be locked out, otherwise, and Hemgot was too cheap to fix the problem.

Shaking his head and mostly decided that he was dreaming and ought to just go back to bed, Shen decided to stick his head into the common room where Hemgot was likely cursing the power outage just as he ought to be counting the night's take. He got to the open doorway, heard nothing, and then froze.

A huge black crystal squatted where the Seeq usually hunkered with the till.

He began to back into the hall, _Nightmare, absolutely_, and thudded into something soft.

"Here, you nimble little shit, why can't you look where you'r—" Shen whirled to see Root glaring at him, and then past him. "What the fuck did you do to Hemgot!?"

"I didn't do anything!"

"The fuck you say, what does that look like?" Root violently jerked his cane in the crystal's direction.

"He was like that! I woke up and the power's out and the acolyte's gone, and he's froze and—"

The old Nu Mou glared up at him. "Shut your babbling trap." He thudded his cane on the floor, thrice. "You said the little brat's not here?"

"N…No."

"Hunh." The old man bared his teeth in a weird grin. Shen hated it when the old fellow grinned, it looked like a dog eating bees. "I knew she was no good."

Shen found himself blinking rapidly at the idea, and Root carried on. "See? These little kids nowadays, thinking they're holy, making us think they're holy. It's a _plot,_ boy!" He shook the gnarled cane for emphasis. "He never turned into a crystal before she showed up."

Well, that was inarguable, but Shen wasn't entirely convinced. Now was probably a bad time to bring it up, though, and he stepped back lightly, balancing himself on the balls of his feet. "...So?"

"Go back to bed, brat. I'm sure she'll get pop up." The old Nu Mou squinted in a way Shen didn't like. "I'll take care of _her._"

-----

On Old Archades streets and elsewhere, several tableaus completed themselves at the same stroke of midnight. At one, red-haired Katen fled, swearing, from brown-coated Apopo and his imploring that he merely had a few questions for a newspaper. Midnight's toll left the pair tumbled into one another beneath the awning of a large bakery at one end of Westfire's square, hostilities and huntings forgotten as wide eyes took in a scene of darkened crystals and spreading red light.

At another, in an alley just moments away, Viera feet scrambled with terrified awkwardness, fleeing a roaring shadow that had risen as the red curtain had dropped, her breath gone quick and shallow. Another few steps and Mjrn would be in the open and away from too-narrow stones – but would that save her?

Here else a third scene: Nu Mou acolyte's ears flicked at the sound of commotion within the Windspear inn. She stood at the edge of the rooftop garden, a spade forgotten in her hand, looking down at the stopped city with bemused comprehension. It was her nightmare, the one that had caused her to beg permission for walkabout, now full in the flesh. Her skin prickled; she would have far preferred an error to the idea that she witnessed something untouched by Faram's Light. She did not sense the little boy that paused for a moment behind her, bright eyes darkened with curiosity, before he blinked away.

Within Draklor Laboratories, in the little dorm that the engineers used when not wanting to return home to sleep, Nono cowered in a corner, shivering. Around him were nearly a dozen small crystals with Moogles frozen within – and something dark and whispering shuffled up and down the halls outside.

Al-Cid Margrace's treasured spy, Rachenbaath, and the old Bangaa carpenter Ba'Gaturn, shared a reaction in common, though – they both remained still in bedrooms rich and sparse, hands crept out from beneath the sheets to grip a weapon, at the sense that _something_ was terribly wrong.

Margrace himself was within great palace walls, still in Archades on both holiday and emissary duties. He remained where he was at midnight's blow, a gun now in his lap (a wry gift from fellow lord Bunansa at the knowledge the foreign noble had fair aim for hunting), and his eyes trained on the crystals that kept his little birds inside. He licked his lips and waited, a ruckus scattering spare armors in the security barracks at the end of the royal guest's floor.


	10. 2:3: Belias, The Card, The Moment Passes

3.

Belias Strikes? The Card Is Laid. The Moment Passes.

Mjrn opened her mouth to scream. She had indeed succeeded in making it to Westfire's open square, but first glance told her it had gained her nothing. She fell to her knees, too frightened to flee the shadow that charged up behind her, a gaping, jagged tear marking a mouth that led to red-tinted darkness inside it. Her panic did not show her the Man and Moogle that witnessed her plight.

Katen, not one to think at pressing issues when reaction might serve him better, ignored that the victim was a Viera – a mere bunny-whore, as he regarded them – but saw only a terrified girl about to be engulfed by scarlet-tinted horror. He rushed towards the creature, a thin little blade appearing in his hand, only to be brushed aside effortlessly by a huge black swipe. The Moogle squeaked, the Hume's startled whuff of pain shaking him from his own shock, and he threw his notebook at the creature. Reality proved itself to him when the book bounced off with no effect, and he fled to Katen's side, seeing no visible injuries. Apopo shook at the young man's arm, trying to bring him out of a stun.

Apparently irritated by the interference, the shadow twisted and poured itself towards Moogle and Hume. The reporter's squeak lent itself to better effect than physical contact, and Katen shook himself back to awareness. "Get off of me, rat!" he snapped at Apopo, who leapt back in startled offense. With a snarl, he grabbed for his blade once more, scrabbling back to his feet. _Whore victim or not, I got its attention now! Damn me thrice!_

A commotion came from behind the shadow, but Mjrn's sudden, desperate attempt to get the thing off of its new prey met the same uncaring blow that had taken Katen down. She struck the wall of the bakery and collapsed at its base in a heap, whimpering softly. Apopo fluttered to her side instead, checking her with gentle paws and cooing as comfortingly at her as he could, considering his own terror and sense of helplessness.

The Moogle turned his head in time to see the young man's battle hit its critical failure. Thick ropes of shadow encircled Katen's neck like squeezing fingers, and the man's tanned and dirty fingers scrabbled at them while he struggled for air. Apopo squeaked, believing with all his heart that when the thing was done with the man, he and the Viera would be ended next.

At one more furious squeeze, a sound like a shot occurred. Katen went limp, and Apopo thought the sound must have been the neck's bones giving up their own battle. But – perhaps it was not. From Katen poured another shadow, huge and wild and roaring. Fire poured from Katen's hands and then into the shadow itself, lava, and bonfire, and inferno.

Then an even stranger thing: For the briefest second, the image of some terrible Gigas where Katen was held split in two, and an afterimage was seen. The outline was unclear, but it was slender and winged and the bright, bright red of a perfect ruby, two horns spiraling from either side of a long, inhuman face. Then it was gone, and so was the attacking shadow, its ectoplasm pouring away into cobbles where it dissipated.

Katen fell to ground, gasping for air, and vomiting once. He thrust the hand with the blade in it towards Apopo when he tried to advance, and the Hume eventually staggered away into dark-dipped alleys, leaving the pair in shock and confusion.

-----

Risa Adel Yigori, proprietress of a curio shop by day and the Velvet Room only by this unnatural night, eyed her perfectly formed stack of cards with silver eyebrow curiously arched. She put a thin, pale hand upon the cards, flexed her fingers, and split the deck in two – one half still face-down on the blue-sheeted table, little black and white masks staring up at her, the other half in her palm. Pursing her lips in thought, she examined the card revealed in her hand. It bore an imperious looking man on a red throne, a pair of ram's horns thrusting from his brow. "Emperor. It _would_ be the brat to manifest first."

She sighed and made the deck whole again. Her other hand slipped to the pile of stones and gripped one, the little curled 'V' bright against black rock. She set it down and looked at it for a while, golden eyes unblinking.

-----

While it cannot be said that time _passed_ as others cowered or waited or watched in the hell born night, there came a sensation for them, eventually, that the nightmare was ending. Gibbering faded away, a curiously metallic clawing at barrack's armor halted in mid scrabble, and Giruvegan's tower again became merely gates and gutters as red moon faded into mostly full silver. The moment that should not have been ticked away, and crystals let loose their prisoners who carried on with their rest or their lives, unaware of what had been, save for a few – some in Old Archades passed frightened Moogle and Viera, unsure of what had happened to such an odd pair, some cooed delicately at a Rozzarian noble, a Nu Mou scowled at sorcery and Seeq when innkeeper barked his anger at the interruption, Fran continued her walk from Bunansa manse without notice of her still-paled friend, and here and there across Ivalice… some came to wakefulness, but not all the way. Apathy marked them as its own.

Come the dawn, at last, to the relief of those unslept. But in all their minds they shared one thought: This might happen again the next night. And if so, what then? And what of the night after?

One knew where to begin. With dawn, Balthier resolved to go below to Old Archades and see what nightmare's word meant in daylight's world.


	11. 2:4: The Velvet Room

4.

The Velvet Room – The Cards Explained

Dressed down, for the still-weary Balthier, meant the rings and coat of office left aside. He was still charmed pirate-fair when the ferry left him in the city below, and more than a few eyes gave him a 'what the hell _you_ doing down here?' squint as he stepped into busy market-morn streets. _Next time,_ he resolved, _I'll suck it up and steal a big robe from a monastic._

It wasn't the recognition he minded, exactly. It was that sooner or later the eyes would pass the question on to mouths, and he didn't enjoy making up lies unless it was part of a job. _Oh, not down here for much, really. Just a few trinkets and some conversation, and, hey, how did you sleep last night? Me? Not so much._ A sour expression passed across his face, and then came back to camp for a bit. It passed his notice that it was more likely he'd be asked after his health more than his presence – his eyes were darker than usual and set in pale hollows. If he'd run into Fran before slipping away from directorial duties, she might have asked him who had died.

His eyes widened, then narrowed as he emerged from an alley onto a wide part of Westfire bend. As dreamed, and as feared, there hung a fresh sign over blue velvet awning, words in curling silver script: Curios and Curiosities – Miss Seleney, Proprietress. The reality of it froze him in his step, and he blinked several times, as if doing so could make it all no more than just another dream.

The door, blue-painted and a white mask hung from a nail below its framed window, flung open and a woman in a blue robe stood on the division between shop and street. The proprietress stared across the way at Balthier, her red lips downturned into a look of impatience. She slipped back inside, the door left open for him.

He fought off an enormous urge to turn around and find a really good bar, forcing his feet across the avenue and inside a bright blue shop whose rich draperies belied the otherwise tackily-displayed knickknacks.

-----

The shop was divided in half; the storefront a repository for the proclaimed curios, but the curiosities waited on the other side of a thick curtain, which the ageless, unnatural woman parted with a gesture and waved Balthier through. The other half was elegant in its simplicity, the blue velvet draperies richer yet and some of them framing a huge painting of night's silver moon. The only other fixtures were a pair of silver-finished chairs on either side of a low table sheeted with more blue fabric. A few items lay scattered on the tabletop – some stones of black and white with one set aside, a deck of cards, but no parchment contracts, to Balthier's relief. He gave the chairs a suspicious glance; buried in the thick metal whorls and ornate curls were zodiac signs and other runes he couldn't identify.

"Miss Seleney. Quite a pun," he said, hiding his concerns in easy banter. Yigori moved from the curtain and took the chair on the other side of the table. She continued to look at him. After a few long, uncomfortable moments, he realized that not only was she not going to respond, but that she didn't seem to blink. His mind clamored for a stiff drink. He cleared his throat and went for a charming smile. "Curios, curiosities, and miscellany. Well, I do believe you've got all that covered." The smile withered before the unchanged gaze.

"Sit," she murmured, abrupt enough to jolt him. Yigori's hand flicked towards the other chair, and he took it, still feeling uneasy.

Apparently ignorant of his discomfort, she took the deck of cards into her hands and began to shuffle them with slow, ritual deliberacy. Balthier dropped his eyes to the pile of stones and noted the little zodiac icons on them, with Aries on the black one set aside. He thought back to his dream, the uneasiness blossoming into full-blown nausea.

"There is tea, for your stomach," Yigori stated flatly.

"Er." Balthier swallowed, and then decided now was perhaps not the best time for crafted pirate pride. "Yes, I think I'll have some."

"In the shop. Behind the counter. Touch nothing else." She did not look up from her cards.

He rose and slipped back through the curtain, finding a mug already prepared. A careful sniff told him of nothing overtly dangerous in it, and he shrugged and returned to his seat. Sweet liquid filled his mouth and settled his stomach as he examined the tableau before him. Twenty-two cards and four little piles, all of it face down.

"Mortals now bind prophecy to zodiac's whisper alone, and it has served mortal and immortal well. The date of birth sets a path for the chick that hatches, and so their routes are foreseen. But secrets are easily buried beneath a half-truth, and what I will show you now, you who fell, you who might yet protect, will serve you. If you will listen. If you _see._"

"I have a better idea – how about, if you can gadabout in dreams and present yourself as some all-knowing mystic before me, I just get some straight answers and we'll get this all sorted out?" As his stomach settled, his courage reformed. Mysticism was interesting enough in texts, but he cared little for it in daily life.

"No." The response was flat and unoffended. "I may not change fate. I may simply show you the paths of its passing, and you may say its course."

Abruptly, he changed topics. "Did you destroy them, the stones?"

"I did not. A fool did, and for your sin and his punishment, now all is in motion."

He swallowed another mouthful of tea. "Do I get a name at least, or will we game at that, too?" He _hated_ the vagueness, and was beginning to wonder if the visit was to be a loss despite its auspicious way of inserting itself into his life.

"If I give the name you'll not believe me until it's seen, and if you wait until it's seen then all will become clear."

_That will be a no. At least she gave some logic instead of fiddling a hand in the air and saying that would dicker with fate._ He set the mug down on the table. "All right. Let's have it. What are they?" He gestured at the cards.

"Mortal soul is born from nothing and gone through life to death – the soul is the sum of the answers found and aspects claimed. A mortal toils and twines with others, seeking the pieces of itself not yet found, and in time, a soul might become whole." At this, she made a gesture and the cards at each end of the wide fan were turned. A jester grinned up from one, and on the other a snake wove in an endless circle around an androgynous figure. "At one end, the birth, the _Fool, _the nothingness, the clean slate. Resting at the other is the knowledge of all _The World_. Between them is man's road, and it is long and dreary and few walk it in full themselves – your souls are the sum of all, not merely your own."

She bent over the table and spread her hands, causing the other twenty to overturn. With less impressiveness, Yigori overturned each of the four small stacks. Those seemed more vague than the others – one stack showed a Bangaa, another a Moogle, another a Nu Mou, and finally a Viera.

"Humes don't get a stack?" Balthier ventured.

"Humes are child of all and child of none."

"Ah," he said, in tones that implied she'd explained nothing.

"This is called _tarot_, and few in this world remember the word except for old, ignored mystics among the Nu Mou. You might discover some texts for yourself – I will spare you much of what cursory research will tell. It is useful at present, in my hands – but only to an extent. Let me say that each card you see represents both future and flaw, alongside being a marker in the soul's journey. That there is no good or evil in the card, though a meaning might be reversed."

"Even on that one?" He reached out and tapped the thirteenth card – a figure robed in black and white, its face seen only as a skull. _Death_, read its label.

"Particularly that one," Yigori replied tonelessly. She began to rearrange the fan and the four stacks into a setup of pairings, save for three: Death, Fool, The World. These she placed in a triangle above the pairs. Next came the stones, paired as well. White and black Aries, white and black Taurus, and so forth. When she was done, the stone-pairs lay centered in a straight line across the table, the white above the black, and one card above the white and below the black – again, each, save for two exceptions. Virgo held one card alone, and it was the white-bordered _Vagrant_. The other was a single stone that was itself half black and half white, and this Yigori placed in the center of the trio. Balthier understood, by dint of exclusion, that it represented Ophiucus. The World sat above this dual-stone, and the other two as triangle's base below it.

"Death's role is twofold, and it is also Virgo's base – the Holy Seraph Ultima, though few think on it as anything other than singular. This is both true and false."

Balthier absorbed her words absently, but was busier examining Leo's pair: Above sat a card called _Strength_, and below, the red _Sun_ card he remembered from his dream. Strength showed a serene-faced woman placing a soothing hand on something that looked like a nightmare's idea of a lion. He immediately saw similarities to Hashmal in the drawing, but it would be a Hashmal gentled and cowed. The Sun, on closer inspection, showed below the sun itself a tiny lion in triumphant, roaring pose, a broken body trampled into the earth beneath its paws.

"There is no good or evil, not in card nor zodiac. The Scions themselves are but named Dark and Light, and 'twas the Dark that rose against Occuria. Should they not be heroes, then?"

_As my father might have been, had he not wanted reins of power for himself._ He bit his lips, recalling, and with the recollection came a bit of doubt. That was not entirely true, and he heard bitter words at Sun-Cryst's end: _"Such high hopes I once had, but you ran, and ran, and they with you! Alas, the hour of your return is late!"_ He reached out a suddenly unsteady hand for his tea and took a slow, deliberate drink while rallying his thoughts. "I have seen the dark scions let loose from little glyphs and released from stones of power. They were not gentle."

"No?"

Doubt continued to grow. There… had been a strange moment related to him by campsite's fire, in the hated, dire future. Apparently life to a girl's brother had been restored by stone's whim and without possession taken of the remade body – not an evil act.

"Dark scions might be better said to be incomplete and angry, denied by their creators. Their light twins are complete and powerful, serving blindly, and so were named holy by their Gods, but does that make them holy for you?"

He began to understand. "Not then. But perhaps if the matter had been… reversed?" This gave him a genuine smile, the first, and eyes unblinking crinkled with a second's gentle approval.

"Gods and men and masks between all. I give you a word – _Persona._" She smiled quickly, like a knife. "The man is a soul, and on the soul is a mask, and the mask and soul might change and grow… the soul _manifested_ when mortal thoughts subsumed. Between many souls who might see this mask is a chance to heal what has gone awry – but to do so brings disaster close enough to kiss before the weave can be unmade."

He took a moment to translate through what he had heard so far, a lifetime's worth of bored perusing of philosophic and symbolic texts come to use at last – Each zodiac could be said to have a light and dark scion, or symbolic 'personae' attached, and each person that lived was connected to the zodiac. That it all balanced out to the light and dark elements of known Espers – the Dark and Light Scions of legend - sounded like a mythology manufacted and promoted by Occuria for some sort of controllable use. In a moment of duress, in a world where there were no chains on the scions, some people might be able to tap the scions' power for themselves. At the cost of their dominant self. "The shattering of the stones?"

She smiled again. "It released the idea you realize – an idea forged by others vexed before, and now struggle to not be vexed again. A simple idea, a plan set for this eventuality, a meme created for the minds of mortals. Can Fate, once unleashed, be rechained and bent to 'godly' will?" As she finished, he saw the flaw put in place by the end of a war and chased it down, distracting himself from other paths of thought.

"Occuria, who forged Scions and set loose the faiths we use and the patterns and… personae we follow would want fate back in their hands, no matter the cost. I think I'm getting this. But with the Sun-Cryst broke they do not walk."

"They can. They do. You know it."

He did, he realized with sudden shuddery horror. Drafts. The rumors of ghosts in his laboratory. He swore to himself. "Still, they can't possibly manifest whole, just… just distant shades."

Her hand reached out and caressed the Fool. "They could, if there were a carrier."

-----

Yigori had fallen mostly silent after her dire statement that the Occuria were back. Balthier tried to prod her back into discussion with pointed questions about what card symbolized what, or even if anyone had found these 'personae' within themselves yet, but only received the briefest answers. He had learned that she called the strange red night the 'Dark Hour,' though she did not give him an answer as to why it had come or what its purpose was. He got the sense it was to be a nightly occurrence, however, and that the persona link would be more easily accessible then.

Balthier had finally left, mentally exhausted by trying to dig for more, and stopped by a book dealer to see if they had any books on 'tarot' in their stock. There were a few, mostly old and crackpotty, but he took one for study anyway. Balthier thumbed through it while taking lunch at the inn on Windspear, a pair of sibling Hume dancers gamely entertaining the mealtime crowd. Balthier held an opinion that the male's heart wasn't in it. He looked tired.

_A few things I might infer, _Balthier thought while staring at a list of traits found in the _Lord Priest_ card. _ First, that I was not the only one awake last night, and those of us awake might be bound by this zodiac pattern. Second, if I discover how someone can deliberately pull out a 'persona,' mine is currently Hashmal, as much as that vaguely nauseates me. And to a third… I think something is to happen at the full moon. She was so adamant that I would come to the Room before then._

Frustrated, weary, and still feeling obligated to show up and do some nominal work at the Laboratory, Balthier shoved the book under an arm and dropped some coins in the dancer's kit, feeling more than a little sympathetic for the man's dark-ringed eyes.


End file.
